


Blood and Dice

by Ithika



Series: Remorseless [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithika/pseuds/Ithika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Vane is 20. The War of the Spanish Succession has just ended, and piracy and lawlessness begins to take its place. Young Vane is accountable only to himself, but against his better judgment decides to assist another young man...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Dice

Blood kept dripping into his eyes, making it hard to see. It was beginning to worry him, but he didn’t have time for that. Another fist, huge and brawny, was speeding towards his head, and he was starting to have trouble deflecting and dodging the blows. 

The fight had begun over the same thing it always seemed to - money - and it seemed like this time, perhaps Charles had bitten off more than he could chew, taking on such a large and bold group of men alone.

* * *

The war has ended, and with it privateering.  No longer can English ships prey upon those of Spain without fear or reprisal, and dozens of ships and crews find themselves with little to no means to carve a living for themselves from the waves. Desperation, hunger, disillusionment and anger are common in the glut of sailors discarded at the end of the war. 

Most of them are not Navy men, and neither are they wealthy or well-connected enough to continue life as merchant traders.  So they languish in ports throughout the new world, spending what little coin they have on whores and drink and dice.  The place was rotting - the fetid stink of disappointment hung in the air as men waited for a fair breeze that seemed never to come.

Charles was not the only young man who fared better than the older ex-privateers, but he was among the most successful of their numbers. A ruinous temper and aptitude for violence had seen him cut loose from his privateer crew just before the real trouble started, and so he weathered the storm of it alone, his wits and his fists against the world. 

The wits were not too dull, but even Vane would admit it was the fists that made him successful. Still young enough to be underestimated, the brawny twenty-year-old used that to his advantage. Nobody expected the brutality and violence of his brawling, and young Vane had started to carve a reputation for himself in the flesh of other men. 

If he was honest, he didn’t have much of a plan. He’d heard rumours of crews that sailed under their own banners, taking what they were strong enough to take and answering to no one and nobody, accountable only to each other and the sea, and he thought he’d like that. But young Charles, despite his letters and his naval skills, was not much of a talker. Men did not want to befriend this angry, violent young man, and he did not care to change their minds about him, not a whit.

He won his fights and took his money and lived for another day, and that sat well enough with him. He missed the sea but not those echoes of the Admiralty that had managed to trickle down onto the privateers he’d sailed with, he was free and so, content. 

_Keep your head down and pick your own fights._ He often repeated it to himself, and it had been key to his survival so far. By picking his fights, he’d been able to avoid any lasting injury - he couldn’t afford broken bones or infected wounds - and he’d ensured that every fight landed him something of worth. So it was entirely against his better judgment to even turn his head to look at the scuffle unfolding across the road. 

A young man - a little older than Charles, he thought, but far finer-boned, spoke increasingly quickly to two livid older men who seemed enraged over the outcome of a game of dice, the cup being thrown at the young man’s face as his hasty words are increasingly drowned out by the other men’s voices. 

There was no reason for him to help them man. He’d only just sat for his meal, his ale - nasty swill - was only just poured. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lanky man fall, and knew it would be over soon. Fights in this town only ended one way. No reason to help at all, but the crumbling fish steaming on his plate doesn’t captivate him, and the flash of his knife as he takes a bite convinces him.

He’d seen the two bar flies many times. They were nearing the end of their fighting days, fat and slow with liquor like as not. Unintelligent,  brawny brutes. The same might be said of Charles, but he knew the difference between himself and them, and that was enough. The young man’s words had stopped, and as he heard what must have been a kick he knew that if he was going to do this thing, he’d best do it now.

Tavern knife clenched in his fist, the young man flew into action. His seat fell loudly to the floor behind him, and almost in an instant his long legs had brought him to bear upon the unexpecting old brawlers. The left - he was short, wiry in his old age, with a bald head and very little paunch - turned to the danger only as Charles was already upon him, right arm deflecting the knife from his face by taking a wound right to the bone. 

His friend was slow - too slow to help his friend, who reacted to the defensive wound the wrong way, his other hand coming to nurse the hurt, which was all the time Vane needed in the world to end him, the dull old shard of metal seeking the soft place at the hollow of the neck as if it were its scabbard. 

It’s been seconds, and the second man - heavier, taller, stares at the blood-sprayed, murder-eyed youth before him with horror as he watches his drinking companion’s (for who can say if they were ever truly friends) husk slump to the dirty floor, aside the man he had been beating. 

If the blood and violence are not what caused the man to immediately loose all trace of gumption, it is the look in the boy’s eyes that does it - ravenous, eager. Blood and blades dance in those young blue eyes, and in the old hazel ones there is drunkenness and fear, though a knife has appeared in his hand from god-knows where and Charles looks at it and back to the terrified bearded face. 

His knife is still in the first man, but he knows he’s won this fight and he grabs the shoulder of the man on the floor, pulls him to his feet beside him. The other man’s hands are shaking, the knife fixing to fall from them at any moment.

But it is time to leave. Even in a place such as this, it is best to leave after these things. Best to leave and lay low, and Charles has the dazed young man by the arm and they back away until they are clear of the building.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not necessarily my definitive headcanon on how Vane and Rackham become friends, but I think their relationship is based around the two of them using each others strengths - both of them are reasonably capable all-rounders, but together they make a great team.


End file.
